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You would trade the moss of our hometowns |
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For a kingdom of grain |
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You tried to spit it out on your way south |
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But it still sticks to the roof of your mouth |
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You've had them drag you off by the hair |
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You had them wait for you over there |
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Behind the towers - behind the flowers |
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On anger's white throne |
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But I don't care for your milk and honey |
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Nor do I wish to be wrapped up |
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In the silence of money |
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Me who cared for flour and oil |
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Who cared for blood-drenched soil |
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And slept the sleep of apples and gold |
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As in the stories of old |
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And I don't care for your grass-given grief |
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For your pain's left me locked in disbelief |
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Among the towers - among the flowers |
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On anger's white throne |
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And what strange sheep we are |
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With the wool pulled over our eyes |
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And what strange fruit we bare |
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When we're stuffed with hatred and lies |
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Despite my silence and my attempts at reserve |
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You pushed me to smother |
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You pushed me to serve |
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They ought to be warned |
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Against your poetry and charm |
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They ought to be warned against you |
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Now finish this harvest |
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And sprinkle my boots with your wine |
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Now that our fears are whistling in flocks |
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In the dust and sobs of time |
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Around the towers - around the flowers |
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On anger's white throne |
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Among the towers - in the orchards of rome |
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Come closer, come closer still |
